Talk
by Naika's Thoughts
Summary: So here I am, John H. Watson, writing. Anyone who is reading this is, I'm sure, aware about what's happening. But this is our side, the side you do not see in the newspapers, that is kept private. So why am I writing this? Because maybe, just maybe, this is the only way I can show Sherlock that, despite his claims, he too is human. More than any of us, in fact.
1. The News

I hear him enter the flat, shutting the door in his usual, mostly silent manner, leaving it to close by itself, while he strides up the seventeen steps, taking two at a time, after stepping on the first stair normally. However, there is a dullness to his pace, as he ascends, not as hastily as how he would when on a case, but not as slowly either. So while he comes up, I take another sip of my tea, eyes on the novel in front of me. It is boring, a part of his vast collection of various books, but I had nothing better to do today, so I decided to read about something that did not involve death or murders. Or anything even close to that, for that fact. However, his pace at the stairs worry me, and my mind wanders from the pages in front, the thoughts all coming together to form a single, coherent unit that said only one thing.

Bad news.

I watch him as he enters, not meeting my eye for the first seven seconds, the papers in his hands making a ruffling sound as they are continually folded and reopened in his long and thin hands. Nervous hands, he always had them, since I time I could remember. The only time they were still was when he was under the influence of an analgesic, or in a case that required absolute precision in handiwork. Else, they perennially trembled, just like now. I look up, to his face, searching, wondering about the results, the ones he is holding in his hands. On getting no reply, I call his name out.

He looks at me with the face, the same way he would always gaze, whether it be us entering a crime scene, or him talking about one of his experiments. The same neutral expression of a mask that he constantly wore to avoid being asked about his emotions. Yet, there is something off, for he seems different. A little... Uncomfortable. Yes, uncomfortable, for though he rarely is, I do see that look when I bring my dates home, and engage in various activities with them, while he tries to concentrate on his work. He always gave that look to me, a silent request to stop distracting him. Couldn't blame him, I guess, for we always did make a lot of noise.

"Well?" I ask him, eyes glancing down at the papers, before back to him. I need an answer, after all.

He nods.

Sighing, I lean back against the couch, balancing the book over my belly as I rub my eyes with my right hand. Of course it was correct. There was no way this could be wrong. The signs were all there, and my mind would never allow me to stop diagnosing things, irrespective of who it was. But there is more, I realize, as I hear him shuffle a little, rather awkwardly, at the doorway.

"How long?" I ask, hoping it would be long enough. It had to be, this was bad enough. To have little time would get much worse.

"Not very. The doctors are giving a time-frame of three months without medications, four with it." He explains, voice unusually clipped. For a second, I can actually imagine a robot talking, the brevity of the situation forcing him to abandon his emotions in the face of logic. Of course he has to, after all. A person cannot die with attachments, emotions, and in many ways, he is doing the correct thing. But.. It feels odd. I want him to be human, at least now, if not more often. Three months..

"Well, what are we waiting for?" I ask, removing the book from my lap as I stretch and then stand up, the injured shoulder giving a sudden twinge as I do.

"Let's start planning. There will be a lot of things that need to be taken care of. Come on now.." I tell him, walking to the kitchen to retrieve my notepad and a pen. Three months of life. What can someone do in that? Hell, what can't they? And it's Sherlock, planning out the bucket list. I'm almost certain that he could complete all of it in one month, irrespective of what it is, and then leave the two months just for.. Nothing.

"Start. I'll add mine in later.." I tell him as I go towards him, giving him the notepad and the pen, taking the file from him. That is my domain, this is his. He is the planner of all things, and I'm just the scrutinizer, pointing out inaccuracies and errors. I can't see him now, but I can feel his gaze on my back, watching me as I walk away, towards my room, out of the door and up the stairs, glancing through the figures, reports, comments, and what not.

This was going to be the longest three months of our lives.


	2. The meeting

I'm still not sure why I'm here, waiting for Mary to come. I'm not even sure if Mary would come, and yet, here I am, sitting at Notting Hill, at a restaurant known as ' The Shed', eating fish and chips. Sherlock, as usual, ran away to complete one of his cases, promising to meet me back at Baker street soon (something that I doubt thoroughly), leaving me with too many hours to kill, and too little time with him.

I sigh, taking a break from the incessant munching of the chips. Two months and twenty nine days. Two bloody months and twenty nine days, and we are wasting our time, trying to be nice and telling every person.. That. About the news. We agreed on calling it that, "The News", for it sounded more like a tabloid rather than nature's death sentence, making things a little easier for us to digest. I honestly do not know how Sherlock is taking it, frankly, for since I handed him the notepad yesterday, he has been awfully quiet. I don't blame him, though. If I were in his place,I would have probably lost my marbles by now, crying and cursing this world for its cruel and frankly ridiculous choices. And now, here I am, all alone, breaking the news out to my ex-wife. Bloody brilliant work, Sherlock.

I look down at my phone, wondering why it is so unusually silent, and wondering if Sherlock was alright, when I hear the chair scrape. Looking up, I see Mary, smiling at me as she took her seat.

"Hello John." She greets, quietly, just as always, flashing a smile at the waiter as he offers her a menu card. Thank goodness that we had separated on amiable terms. Else god knows that the three months would have ended almost a year ago, along with the divorce.

"Hello Mary." I greet back, giving her a half smile she had once called 'adorable'. Honestly, though, that made me feel like a stuffed toy.

"So, how have you been? You look tired." She tells me after taking a sip of the water. I give a small snort of amusement, before replying to her query.

"I've been good. Tired yes, for the cancer does that to you. Make you feel and look tired. In fact, you should see Sherlock. He looks like a ghost now, all dark, bruised eyes and thinner than before." I tell her, matter of factly, as she nearly chokes on her water.

"Cancer?" She asks, putting her glass down and looking at my face, searching for the signs that I was joking.

So, sighing, I tell her the entire story. Of the sudden coughing bouts, the wheezing, the pain in breathing.. All of it. And she sits through it all, listening, not interrupting even when I stop midway. I cannot help it, for the part when I remember Sherlock's face, trying to hide it's horror at seeing blood from just a mere cough, made my throat close up, every time. Being a doctor, I know about death, seeing it every and nearly experiencing it once. But its difficult to see someone close to you, someone who you are ready to protect with your life, lose theirs. The experience is traumatizing, both for the patient and the people close to them, and it fills me with more sadness, that a person such as Sherlock should have to go through all this.

After my monologue, Mary reanimates herself, reaching out to pat my hand. She had small tears in her eyes, and the salad she had ordered was untouched beside her.

"If either of you need anything, and I mean anything, don't hesitate to tell me." She offers, her voice muted, choked. I suppress the urge to gape. For never before had I seen Mary look so sad, not since our confrontation in Baker street over her allegedly false attempt at taking Sherlock's life. Ironical now, that she is succeeding in some way.

I smile and nod, my mind racing while blatantly ignoring her false reassurances. I'm thinking about too many things right now, such as the will, the medicines required, the doctors whom can ask for help, for just plain advice. We had agreed on no chemotherapy, for frankly, it was a horrible way to go, slowly wasting away, just counting out days, being in that much pain. So thre-no, two months and twenty nine days, and then it'll all come crashing down.

"John, I must go now. Susan is becoming cranky, and her nanny has an exam tomorrow." Mary's last words bring me back to reality, and I turn my attention to her. Susan, our child. Well, hers now, since she fought for custody. But nevertheless..

"Of course. Give my love to the little one, will you?" I tell her, flashing a smile as I notice the ring. A plain band of gold..

"Mary?" I ask, eyes stuck on the gold ring.

"Are you seeing someone?" I look at her face, waiting for an answer, while she looked away, fidgeting for a few seconds before replying.

"Yes. Goodbye John. I wish you both well. Truly." She tells me, bending low once to give me a peck on the cheek, and then moving away, walking, just going out of the restaurant, leaving me with my now cold plate of fish and chips. I sigh, the third time today, and reach out to take a bite when my phone vibrates.

' Sherlock passed out. When was the last time he ate? Area between the bridge and embankment. Come quickly.- GL'

I wipe my mouth quickly, calling for the waiter to give the bill as I text back with one hand. That bloody idiot! I told him to eat today morning when we were leaving for our respective destinations, as he was swaying lightly on his feet, while standing. Look what he got himself into now. Bloody oaf.

' Four days ago. Call the paramedics, give him coffee, and threaten to put him on the IV. I'll be there in half an hour.- JW'

Swearing under my breath, I put in the rounded amount for the food, and then I run, catching the nearest tube to the Embankment. I swear to god that I am going to kill that nincompoop one day, with my bare hands.


	3. The Jam

It's funny how you never realize the worth of something, until you are close to losing it. You think it'll all be fine, that you'll live forever, love forever, until one day, you are suddenly left out in the ocean, gasping for dear life, struggling to stay afloat.

Sometimes though, you just let go, not wanting to fight anymore. You become sick and tired, and don't want to stay any longer. So you quietly slip under the waves, slowly watching yourself go, until there is nothing left to do except close your eyes and sleep eternally.

I walked in today morning to a Sherlock I had never seen. This man seemed to be.. Thoughtful, in his actions and words. He seemed to possess emotions, and my laptop too. It's only fair to assume that he read my entries, but I am surprised to see that he wrote one too. But, he tells me that only after the death, it will be published. Not before.

I sigh as he told me this, because frankly, what he wrote is brilliant. Really. Un-Sherlockian. Or rather, similar to the man who currently occupied the body of William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I actually had to read it twice, thinking that I missed the acerbic comments, the acidic responses, the... Sherlock in it. But then again, he has been mellowing a little of late. A word of normalcy here, a retort bitten back, helping with the grocery bags.. Who knew? But miracles do happen, apparently. People return from the dead, and become nice before seeing death again. Who am I to complain, though? I'm just enjoying this, sitting here, watching Sherlock humanize, fumble with his words, look nervous, and be.. Normal.

Of course, comes the next logical question. How long will this normalcy last?

Apparently, all of two seconds. For Sherlock manages to break the bottle of jam while flailing his dressing gown about his skinny frame, trying to look all important and scary. The corner of the gown caught the bottle of jam, sending it hurtling over the edge of the table, and shattering on the floor, right behind that annoying clodhopper, resulting in pieces of fruit from the jam splattering over the lower cupboards in the kitchen, and the glass being strewn all over the place. I stare at it for a few seconds, my brain trying to catch up with what exactly happened, while Sherlock saunters out of harms way, turning around near the bathroom door to look at me and then at the mess, exactly like how one would look at a squashed insect stuck under their ridiculously expensive shoes. And then, without a backward glance, that twat glides into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, leaving me standing in the living room, staring at the massacre with a mix of fury and horror, my blood simmering to a boil. Bloody hell, Sherlock. Why? Why only my favorite bottle of Hartley's jam? The jam is lying there, abandoned on the floor, oozing out it's contents on the tiles, and that sight made me angrier at Sherlock. That ungrateful prick! He expects me to clean up always behind him? For his actions?! Well, not this time.

"SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES! YOU GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW AND CLEAN THIS MESS UP, OR I SWEAR TO GOD YOU WON'T SURVIVE TO SEE THE SUNRISE TOMORROW!" I roar, my words directed at the closed door.

And after two minutes, I am greeted with the satisfying sight of Sherlock cleaning up, grumbling as usual but more subdued, especially since he was being subject to my ' Captain Watson' glare. Good. He had better learn to clean up, later than never.


	4. The Talk

I was sitting by the fire, enjoying the warmth it had to offer to me, while cradling a glass of Jack Daniels single barrel, a gift from Mycroft. Really, I don't understand how he knew it. Maybe those spy cameras that are (not so) cleverly hidden in the book case, the skull and various other places. God, I suddenly think about all those times I had brought a girl home, and seduced them on the couch, before Sherlock scared them away with a series of screeches from his violin, or a violent announcement of his presence in the room, mostly with an explosion, or with a flourish of his coat, and the baritone voice rattling on about a new case, completely ignoring the fact that I had a date with me. The poor girl would usually stutter, stare in shocked silence, or something of the sort, until his greatness turned his attention to her. Usually, all hell would break loose then, and I would be a silent witness to the woman's humiliation at the hands of my best friend, while the said best friend would smirk with a triumphant look on his face, as the woman would walk away. If Mycroft had his cameras always, he would have been witness to it countless times. And maybe, he would have also seen the few times my seduction was... Successful, ending with passionate love-making on the couch, usually. Ah, those were the rare times when Sherlock would be away, usually solving an art case, or something that did not need my help and expertise, thus leaving me to do what I wanted. Good times, really, for whatever the scenario was, it did end good for me, always.

Smiling to myself, I barely realized when Sherlock had come to join me by the fire holding a glass of scotch of his own.

"That's not mine." I observe, seeing how the color was a bit darker. Also, it seemed richer...

"A gift. Mycroft's favorite. Sullivan's Cove, French oak cask. He believes I should refine my tastes in alcohol. Of course, he would want me to end up like him." Sherlock tells me, snorting at the last line, before taking a sip of his drink.

I chuckle too, imagining how Sherlock would look were he to be like Mycroft. It's funny, really, imagining him. Not much to add, actually, save a belly in the front, a waistcoat, pocket watch attached with a chain at one of the button holes. He looks rather... Bored, in my mind, wearing stiff outfits that did little else than be cumbersome during cases.. No. He looks good, as it is.

"I know I do." Sherlock says out of the blue, almost like as if he read my thoughts.

"I did not read your mind, John." Wait, how did you-

"I merely observed. Your eyes were unconsciously moving through my form, contemplating me in Mycroft's clothes, and at the end, you shook your head a little, almost as if dismissing that thought, with a slight upward turn of the left side of your lip. And your response to my comment only strengthened my suspicions." He explains, voice a little softer than before, his speech slightly slow.

"That's.. Brilliant, as usual. Really.." I say, smiling as I turn to look at the flames, just staring into the fireplace as the clock ticked on, the dust continued to settle, and the traffic slowed down. One could almost hear it, the ending of another day near, as it began to wrap up for the night, the number of happy chatters becoming lesser as time passed, the sounds of echoing footsteps of the lonely night strollers eerie in the otherwise comfortable silence. And while the outside world prepared to sleep, the two of us, Sherlock and I, sat by the fireplace, in companionable silence, Mrs. Hudson's telly chattering away in the background downstairs, the cracking of the fire as it consumed the wood, the warmth of the whiskey as it rolled down my throat, the graceful way Sherlock lounged on the couch, staring at the fire too. The flat was mostly dark, because none of us bothered to ever turn on too many lights, so for now, the only light that came was from the stairway, to give me some light to lead me to bed.

I sigh as I reach the end of my first drink, turning to look at Sherlock's glass, still half full. Shrugging a bit, I turn to pour myself another one, this time having it neat.

"You don't have much, do you?" I ask him, settling back comfortably in my armchair, adjusting the pillow for better lumbar support.

"No. I prefer to remain out of intoxication, as much as is possible." He replies, softly, eyes never moving away from the fire. I nod as a manner of acknowledging his answer, and turn to the fire too, looking into it, just hoping the warmth would be enough.

"I am terrified, John."

"Hmm? Of what?" I ask, turning to look at him, wondering what prompted this topic. Sherlock did not usually admit to being terrified. Did he have a low tolerance to alcohol, by any chance? I should probably keep an eye out.

"Of losing this." He says, taking a rather large gulp from the glass this time.

"This?" I echo, wanting to hear it from the horse's mouth.

"This." He vaguely gestures at our surroundings with his free hand, the other one holding the glass a bit more tightly than usual. I only look at him with what he calls my ' Anderson' look.

"Us. Our lives." He clarifies, finally. Oh. OH.

"Don't be." I tell him, softly. Of course he is terrified about losing it all. Even I am. And god knows he will be suffering more than me.

"It's not like if you're scared of it, it's not going to happen." I tell him, gently. And noticing how he shifts his face, to look at me, properly, I know now that I command his complete attention. Well, there goes my stiff upper lip.

"You see, Sherlock, there are things that will happen. Things that you cannot stop from occurring, no matter what. Obviously, they do hurt us, but.. You must cope with it. So either you can mope around, and waste your life away, or you get up, and do something." I tell him, turning back to the fire, taking a sip of the whiskey.

"Also, I'm scared too. It's frightening for me because god knows what's going to happen after this. And the future certainly does not seem very bright. For me, at least." I add, not looking at him anymore.

"I know that. But the knowledge of the facts does not soothe the terror." Sherlock tells me, looking back to the fire again, his frame more tense than relaxed, face tight, just like his grip on the glass.

"Usually, only way I get rid of my fear is by talking. Maybe you should try that too." I suggest, looking at him for affirmation. He nods, not meeting my eye, and then starts talking.

"I am scared of being alone again, John. I lost you almost twice before, and I did not want to lose you again.. Maybe Mycroft might-"

"No." I raise my glass, and he stops mid-flow, turning to watch me.

"I do not want to know about what you think others will do. Just tell me about yourself. You. Trust me." I say, my throat closing up a little at this little statement. Why, I wonder idly. It's not like I'm asking anything extraordinary of him. He always trusts me. No matter what, he looks to me for advice and guidance in the end. And that is his way of trusting. So why am I getting emotional over this now?

The phrase seems to shake Sherlock too, and he curls into his chair, folding up into a nearly impossible size and fitting into that space, without spilling a drop of liquid. But what was strange was that he usually did so when he was unconsciously trying to cut off from someone, his body being a physical barrier. So why now?

"It hurts me, John. Deep inside. And I do not know what to do." He mumbles from his curled position, wiggling his toes a little. I look in fascination at the pale, white things, then look at the mans face. Oh. So that's why he curled in.

There are glints of moisture down his cheekbones, tears that no matter what, I did not want to see. Ever. Just no.. This is so wrong. But then again, I have to be careful. If Sherlock was being open without wanting to, I could not bring attention to certain parts. Doing so would only be a betrayal of the trust, the trust that he is giving me, tentatively, waiting for me to crush it. Oh god, this man.

"It hurts me too, Sherlock. A lot. Almost a physical pain, if you were sentimental enough to imagine that. Death is not something I enjoy very much. And knowing that everyone around you is going to experience the pain of loss? Your own pain increases manifold. You only want to curl into yourself, and disappear from the world, save it from that agony, if possible. But we can't do that, Sherlock. Because the people around us need our support. They need our strength. Look at me.." I ask, getting off my chair, kneeling in front of his folded self, facing him.

" But that's the point. You have to fight this pain, turn it into something positive. Promise me, Sherlock, that we'll be strong. Just for each other. It's the least we can do. And if anything hurts, tell me. I'll give you the same benefit. But.. Don't. Just stop hiding it inside yourself. Because whenever you do, it only grows worse. It kills you from the inside, slowly, and believe me when I say that sharing is easier. I'm a doctor, I know." I say, giving a humorless smile at the end, while Sherlock looked at me from his perch, resembling a scared, nay, terrified cat.

"And, also.. Thank you. For sharing this with me. You have no idea how much it means to me that you're telling me things you wouldn't tell yourself. Really." I add, reaching out once to run my hand through his hair. It always calmed him down, sorted his mind out, and he did appreciate a good hair massage.

"Now, kill the fire once you're done, will you? I'm going to bed now." I say as I stand up, wincing when my knees painfully crack into place. I drain the last of my drink, put the glass down nearby, and then turn to Sherlock.

"Think about it. But just do remember.. I'll be there for you, if not always." I say, sincerely, before turning to the stairs, leaving the man to decode, contemplate, understand, decrypt everything that I said. Must be the alcohol talking in me, but I did mean it, even if it came out in a garbled mess. I reach the top of the stairs, towards my room, turning the light off as I pass the switch.

"Good night, Sherlock."


	5. The Emotional Fool

**I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I had to post this. It's too beautiful for me to ignore it. I hope you enjoy reading this, because this here is proof that Sherlock Holmes has a heart. And a very fragile one at that. Though outwardly, he is a drama queen who is sulking on the couch because I posted this. Honestly, Sherlock. Grow up.**

This is Sherlock Holmes writing. John has gone to buy some groceries, insisting that I do something productive with my time, instead of muttering into the couch cushions about the terribly mundane state of criminal affairs. My ennui is, therefore, leading me here, to read these entries by John, and to add some of my own. I have been told that, when I do write about more than just the bare plot points of a case, I write rather beautifully, the words and imagery in the mind of reader appearing far more pleasing than what John's writing gives. So I shall attempt to exercise that skill of mine, of only to try and express my feelings. Forgive me if I sound emotional, but the matters are grave, and my future bleak.

His jovial nature is beginning to get on my nerves. He pretends that nothing is to happen, that every thing is the same, irrespective of the news. And it is difficult to bear with after a given point, for there is only so much I can mask, so much I can hide from my friend, without letting my inside self die a terrible death, feeding it the poisonous knowledge that every day we spend in normalcy is another day lost, which we could have spent with each other.

But no matter on that. One must not dwell upon the negative aspects of life, or the impending doom of death taking away everything that we love, cherish, and would protect, no matter the price of the protection. Or how, if the fates had been kinder, we could have spent more time. I would have greatly enjoyed studying John in detail, adding more to my memories about the way he holds his morning cup of tea, sitting in his chair and merely looking into the fireplace, lost in the depths of his.. Mind. Depths I cannot fathom, for he hides them well, projecting only a facet of his personality that every person can relate to. The kind doctor,the gallant gentleman, the knight in shining armor, the healer, the man with soothing words..

And then comes the other side. The army captain, the person used to being obeyed. A man with a mission. The doctor who kills. The loyalty of a lifetime, the knowledge that extended many more. A dangerous being, one who must not be trifled with.

Of course, there is a third aspect to him, one that not many see. Many forget, in fact, that he is also a person of deep, painful memories, of visions and sighs that assault his senses in his unguarded moments, testing the frailty of his mind. The ache of the lives lost in a meaningless battle, the man who does not wish to see even one more soul squandered. I recall the time when, during a case, I had suffered from near drowning. As I was told later, John had been frantic in reviving me, possessed almost, working the resuscitation techniques in a robotic manner, face completely neutral, before pulling me up by my coat lapels, and smacking me a few times across my face. He had begged, pleaded, ordered that I live, that I do not get to die under his hands, that he will not tolerate a repeat of the fall, before he started the CPR again. It explained the mystery of the broken ribs and the bruises on my cheeks, but as Lestrade recounts it, that day was the day everyone had felt John's fear, coursing raw and unfettered through his veins, and seen his willpower, of how he was able to stay conscious despite his own hypothermia setting in. It was sad that I was unable to witness it, for I wish I could have. I wish to see him then, completely at the mercy of his fear of death, not for himself, but for another, and then I wish to hold him close, soothe the fear away, promise him it will be.. Fine.

The fates are cruel, indeed, for I know now that I cannot do that. Cannot help him ease through the pain, for it will be within both of us, demolishing us bit by bit. And I cannot soothe him, tell him it will be fine, for I will be responsible mostly for that pain, the ache of departure from this world, and it would hurt him more, relentlessly. I can only stand by, hold a brave front, only for him, and hold him course, offer him comfort as the lords of death spreads his wings upon us, and separates us forever. Until we meet, probably, in another life, another time..

If this post sounds rather romanticized, I apologize. You may hold John at fault for this, for he is influencing me more so than I ever thought. And this is.. Unusual, that I be affected so much by it. But it is, for now, caring about John is my only disadvantage.

I know you will read this, John. I know you will probably come into my room after this, hug me despite my protests, and cry over what a sentimental fool I have become. You may not do that, for it will only serve to make everything worse than what it was. Until now, I can pretend, if only for you, that everything is.. Fine, even when it is not. But do anything out of the ordinary or predictable, and I will crumble, becoming dust in your capable hands, unable to rebuild myself again. And I would much rather prefer that it does not come to that.

I would prefer to be strong as ever. If only for you.


End file.
